


I Believe In You

by twentysixletters



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, M/M, Oneshot, lots of feels, okay this is sad, this is a les mis fic so obviously people die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twentysixletters/pseuds/twentysixletters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire dies a little earlier than he does in canon, and Enjolras is there to hold him. Inspired by a Tumblr post:<br/>http://mightysleepwalker.tumblr.com/post/119972197787/things-definitely-not-to-think-about</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe In You

Grantaire didn’t mind hangovers. In his twenty-nine years, he’d had enough of them that he knew how to deal with them. It didn’t make them any more pleasant, though.

He rolled over sluggishly and moaned as his shoulder slammed into something. His eyes were bleary as he forced them open to see the cupboard he’d hit. Why was he sleeping on the floor of…actually, where was he?

It was loud outside. Men were yelling, some screaming, their voices punctuated with gunshots.

Using the top of the cupboard to haul himself to his feet, he staggered a little as he stood. He was in the Musain- of course. He remembered now. The procession, building the barricade…that must have been when he’d blacked out.

And now the noise outside. It suddenly made sense. The National Guard was attacking.

That meant that his Apollo was in danger.

Nothing could have made him move faster. The last fumes of alcohol dulling his mind were blown away. Before his mind could process what he was doing, he had bolted down the stairs and out into the square.

It was chaos. Wherever he turned, Enjolras saw men being cut down like wheat. A soldier moved towards him, brandishing his sword. He only just managed to block him in time, using the wooden pole in his hand to send him staggering backwards with a grunt. His momentum spun him around, so that he ended up with his back to the barricade. Whilst the soldier was still off-balance, he brought his pistol up and shot him cleanly through the chest. He collapsed to the ground, the light in his eyes flickering and slowly fading.

But he hadn’t been the only man to target the leader. It was too late to move by the time Enjolras turned back and saw the gun pointing at his chest. All he could do was close his eyes and wait, and silently mourn for the France that he would never see.

But it wasn’t too late for him to be saved, not by a long shot. There was still time for Grantaire to see what was happening. Still time for him to dart across the square and barge into Enjolras, shoving him out of harm’s way.

The gun fired, but it didn’t hit Enjolras.

He was confused for a second. The gun had gone off. He’d heard it. So why wasn’t he hurt?

Then his gaze fell to Grantaire, who had slumped down onto the cobbles, a hand pressed to his chest. His fingers were red.

Without really knowing what he was doing, he knelt next to him. “Joly!” he called. Then quickly, efficiently, he pressed his own hand against Grantaire’s wound. He shifted positions slightly so that he was cradling him in his arms, ignoring his pained gasp. He was trembling slightly, his mind still struggling to process what had happened.

“Grantaire… you- you saved my life. Why?”

Grantaire’s breathing was laboured, his body taut with pain. Yet he’d never been more frustrated by Enjolras than he was in that moment. After all this time, could he really still not see?

“Because I believe…” he coughed, and Enjolras wiped away the drop of blood in the corner of his mouth almost tenderly. “I believe in you.”

The phrase echoed in Enjolras’ head, reminding him of the thousand other times he’d heard Grantaire say it. Say it drunkenly, bitterly, mockingly. The thousands of angry retorts he’d come up with. And yet, in this moment, he realised- had he ever been mocking him at all?

He stared into Grantaire’s tired brown eyes for the longest moment. No, he hadn’t been. His heart twisted in sudden remorse.

Joly came and crouched next to them, prying Enjolras’ hand away from the wound. He was suddenly aware that the noise of the battle had ceased, and that rain was soaking into his clothes. What had happened? He hadn’t noticed.

He did notice the way Joly’s breath hitched in his throat at the sight of the wound.

“Well? Do something!” he hissed.

Joly looked up at him, shaking his head. His eyes were sombre. “Enjolras, there’s nothing to do. He’s dying. I’m sorry.” His gaze turned back to Grantaire. “Grantaire, I…”

Grantaire shook his head. “Don’t worry. Go help someone else.”

“No!” Enjolras would have said more, but Grantaire’s grip on his wrist stopped it. Joly got to his feet and moved away slowly.

“Leave it, Enjolras. You can’t fix everything with hope.”

The fondness in Grantaire’s tone had Enjolras looking at him in a kind of wonder. It was the way he usually looked when he spoke about France.

“Grantaire, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never…”

He cut him off. “Don’t be.” His body convulsed in another cough. Enjolras held him until it had passed.

“Is there anything I can do?” His voice was soft. Grantaire struggled to keep his eyes open, to keep looking at him.

“Live. I…don’t want to have died for nothing. Live.”

Enjolras spoke louder, firmer. “I intend to.”

He nodded, a small smile on his lips. He was tired, so tired. He could feel darkness coming for him, and knew there would be nothing after it. Suddenly, he didn’t want to think about it.

“Enjolras? Tell me about your new world.”

His muse’s face softened, but there was still sorrow in his eyes. “Of course.”

The voice he used was slow and serene and apologetic. “Everyone is going to be equal. Working together. No one will be too poor to eat or to afford a decent house.” As he carried on, he absent-mindedly stroked Grantaire’s hair from his forehead, staring into his eyes.

Grantaire let the music of Enjolras’ voice wash over him as he looked back at his Apollo, radiant with belief. However hard he tried, however much he wanted to, he had never been able to block out that light. Not even with alcohol. It was a child’s hope, innocent and improbable. But it was that which had brought him back to Enjolras time and again. It was the warmth which had kept him living. A warmth which now acted as a drug against the pain and fear.

He didn’t want to stop looking at him, and fought his eyes’ desire to close for as long as he could. But even that cost too much energy. Before long, he had to give in.

Enjolras began to panic. His words came faster now, as if by sheer promises he could hold Grantaire in the world. His hold on him tightened, and he shook him slightly. Out of the blue, he realised that he couldn’t just let this happen.

“’Taire? ‘Taire, stay with me.” The nickname felt natural on his lips.

How long had he wanted Enjolras to talk to him like that for? Gentle. Kind. Forgiving. A small smile crept onto his lips as he forced his eyes open again, staring up at his leader. Tears were sliding silently down his face, and Grantaire didn’t think he even realised.

“I never left, Enjolras.”

“Grantaire, I can’t let you- you can’t go…”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, reaching up to stroke the tears from his cheek. “It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

“This is my fault,” he sobbed. His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Grantaire.”

“Not your fault,” he breathed. “My choice. Just…don’t die. Don’t die, Enjolras.”

His jaw tightened “I won’t. I promise.”

Satisfied, Grantaire smiled. It wasn’t his usual drunken grin, it was a smile of hope and peace.

“Thank you…”

He let out a soft breath, before his hand fell back to the ground. As his eyes slid closed, Enjolras’ grip on his arms tightened and his sobs began to shake Grantaire’s body. But the noise came as if from far away, and gradually it became too quiet to hear at all.

When Grantaire finally fell still, Enjolras shattered. He pulled the body into his arms tightly, rocking slightly. “God, no…Grantaire, come back, please. Please.”

But Grantaire remained still and silent. Something inside Enjolras twisted, and he slumped forwards. He didn’t know if he would ever have the strength to stand again. He wept silently, his tears falling freely onto Grantaire’s pale face.

When Combeferre and Courfeyrac came forward to help him to his feet, he barely realised that they were there. The tears had stopped, replaced by an eerie numbness. Was this what Grantaire had drunk to escape from all these years? Because now he understood. He didn’t want to feel this. Didn’t want to feel anything.

Other hands replaced his on the body, and suddenly Grantaire was being carried into the Corinth. It took six men to lift him. Enjolras’ hands felt limply to his sides. It took his friends murmuring into his ears to get him to rise.

“Come on, Enjolras. He’s gone now. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“We still need our leader, Enjolras.”

A leader. Yes. They needed someone to lead them. He had promised Grantaire. He was going to live.

He took a deep breath, and turned to his men.

By midday the next day, Enjolras stood alone, framed by the Musain’s window. A wall of soldiers faced him. On the blood-splattered floorboards in front of him lay the bodies of Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Joly. More bodies were sprawled downstairs and outside. The gutters ran red with blood.

How had it come to this? He had failed them. He had failed them all. He clenched his fists, and closed his eyes. His flag dropped to the ground- he didn’t have the strength to raise it.

As the guns were raised, all of their faces ran through Enjolras’ mind. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Feuilly, Bahorel, Prouvaire. Even Eponine and little Gavroche. But one in particular settled. One in particular occupied Enjolras’ final thoughts.

I failed you, Grantaire. I’m so sorry.

The last face Enjolras saw as the report rang out was the face of the first and last man he would ever fail.

Two hands in the darkness. They take him and help him to his feet, leading him forwards. The two men smile at each other as they step into the light.


End file.
